Aftermath
by clair beaubien
Summary: Sam deals with killing Luci. Obviously AU. Rated for talking a lot about killing in Ch 1. Up now Ch 2: Jack's POV
1. Chapter 1

A/N 1: I'm fuzzy on if a human could kill Luci with the archangel blade. But for the sake of this story, I'm going with yes.

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Vengeance.

Sam knew vengeance.

Dean didn't have to warn him about it, he'd grown up on it. It was the cereal he'd eaten with no milk, the sleep he'd gotten with no bed, the promises he'd listened to with no hope.

And after he'd grown up it was the knowledge in his head, the weapons in his hands, the scars on his body.

Sam _knew_ vengeance.

He didn't know its absence.

He had no experience walking in a direction that wasn't toward revenge.

He didn't know what to do with a life where the Big Bad – _the_ Big Bad – was dead. Really, truly, permanently dead and gone.

Was it rational to feel off-balance at the loss of that torment?

Was it possible to be afraid of having nothing to fear?

"You okay?" Dean asked. Had asked a hundred, a thousand, times since they got back. And Mom would look sad and Cas would look grim and Jack wouldn't look at all because he never was anywhere Sam was since they got back.

Since –

 _Since what, Sam? Hunh? Since what?_

"Seriously," Dean said. They were in the medical room. "You got a stomach ache, or something else?"

"No. Why would you even ask that?" Sam asked. Sure, his guts felt twisted up, knotted up like boot laces, but he wasn't going to let Dean know that. Dean would just –

He followed Dean's pointed look to where he had his hand pressed against his abdomen. He dropped his hand.

"I'm fine."

" _Yeah_." The word dragged out of Dean's mouth. "So, Pepto or Phillips?"

 _Shut up,_ Sam said. Thought he said. Wanted to say. He was fine. Fear was dead. Evil was dead. It was fine, he was fine, nothing was fine. "I'm going to my room."

His room and the med room were separated by two hallways and a sharp turn. Two hallways where the lights were too bright, the colors were too loud, and everything felt new and old and wrong and waiting.

Jack was there, in the hallway, at the sharp turn. Jack was there and then he was somewhere else and Sam was walking into the kitchen.

They were never in the same place at the same time since they got back.

Since Sam –

 _Since what, Sam? Since – c'mon, say it with me – since – you killed –_

"Thought you were going to your room," Dean said. Dean was everywhere Sam was. Sam couldn't walk into a room since they got back and not find Dean. "Here, I was going to bring this to you," and Dean handed over a clear plastic cup filled with a thick, white, liquid. _Phillips it is._

Sam tried to argue, "No, I'm not – I don't – it's just -" but his guts were twisting themselves into clock springs and his forearm was pressing vainly against his belly.

Evil was dead. It was gone. No more evil. No more fear. No more sleepless nights, foul dreams, hideous memories.

 _No more no more no more no more._

He drank the chalky liquid; the plastic cup crackled and fractured in his fist. There couldn't be _no more_. There had to be more. There was always more.

"Okay, Sammy. Let me have that, let me look at your hand," and Dean was pulling his fingers open, prying the bits of plastic out of his grip.

"Dean? When you – when you killed Alistair. Did that – did that change anything?"

No, that was – no. There was something wrong with that question. Dean was looking at him like he didn't understand it, like he didn't like the question. It wasn't – what was it supposed to be?

"You killed him, right?"

"No, Sam," Dean answered slow, like the answer was dangerous. Or maybe like Sam was dangerous. "You killed him."

Laughter,, grating, cackling laughter, spun Sam to look behind him. _How many times have you killed me already, Sammy? Hmm? And I keep – coming – back. You can't get rid of me. You'll never be rid of me. You wanna know why? Hunh, Sammy? You wanna know why? 'Cause I'm in your noodle, Sam-I-Am. Your noodle. You'll never get rid of me._

"Sam?"

There was no one there. No one with him but Dean.

"Sam?"

Only Dean.

"I want to go lie down."

"Yeah. All right. You should. I don't know how long it's been since you slept."

And Sam started to walk out of the kitchen into the loud, bright hallway. And then he stopped. Mom was out there, Cas was out there.

Jack was out there.

Sam couldn't be where Jack was because Jack was never was Sam was. Not since they got back.

 _Not since you killed –_

"Dean?"

But Dean wasn't in the kitchen. Sam heard his footsteps in the hallway. Maybe going to Sam's room. Probably going to Sam's room. Sam couldn't walk into a room since they got back and not find Dean there already.

If he could get to his room, he'd be okay. If Dean was there. If he could get to wherever Dean was. Sam bent his head against the glare of lights in the hallway and walked toward his room. There was too much light. Too much exposure. Too many things that should've stayed hidden, should've stayed in the dark.

 _You thinking about what we did all those years and years and years, Sammy? You remember, don't you? Should I remind you? Should I tell everybody here what we – did – to you?_

He could get to his room. His room was just down the hall and around a corner from the kitchen. He only had to make it that far. Dean would be there. Dean would be in his room. Dean would be somewhere. Wherever Dean was Sam would go there. He couldn't walk into a room without Dean being there. Not since they got back.

Not since –

 _Say it. C'mon, Sammy, say it. It's not that hard. Since you killed me. You can't even say it. Why can't you say it?_

"Sam?"

That wasn't Dean. It was Jack, standing just past the corner of the hallway. Standing in front of Sam's room. Standing between him and Dean.

He'd leave, he would. Jack would leave. Sam would go to the kitchen, and Jack wouldn't be there anymore. Jack would leave.

But the kitchen wasn't where Dean was and Jack didn't leave.

"Sam? Are you okay?"

Jack didn't leave and Sam couldn't get to Dean.

Sam hadn't been alone with Jack since they got back.

Since Sam killed -

 _You killed his old man. You get that, right? How you think he feels about that, hmm? Sammy? You would've ripped my guts out right in front of him if you could've. You shoved that archangel blade so far up my gullet it came out in Tuscaloosa. You think he's gonna_ thank _you for that? You think he's standing there bursting with gratitude? You think_ I _can be nasty? You ever see what he can do?_

"I want Dean," Sam said. He knew he said it. He knew he said it out loud. "I need Dean."

 _Where_ is _Dean, Sammy? Huh? Where is Dean? I'll tell you where he's_ not _– he's not with you. You'll never_ never _spend as much time with Dean as you have with me. Ever. It's you and me, kid. I'm your whole life._

"I just need to get to Dean," Sam said. Knew he said. Thought he said. Jack didn't hear him or didn't want to hear him or didn't understand or didn't care. Jack walked towards Sam, walked closer to him, made Sam back away, farther from his room, farther from Dean.

"Please."

 _Maybe you don't want to be rid of me._

"Stop it." If Jack would just stop walking, if that voice would just stop talking, Sam could just think. "Please."

 _You still dream about me, don't you?_

"Please stop."

 _I dream about you._

"I – I – " He couldn't breathe. The pain twisting his guts was nothing now compared to the white hot agony in his chest. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He couldn't get away. Jack was there. Jack was still there. Mom and Cas were there. He couldn't get away.

"Dean. I need Dean."

" _Sorry, Sammy-Sam-Sam. I don't think you're ever going to see Dean-o again."_

"Shut up. Shut up, get away from me. Get away. _Get away_."

The searing pain seared through his lungs and up into his skull and before everything totally whited out, the last thing he didn't see was Dean.

tbc

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A/N 2: I'd like to ask thoughts & prayers for my son, who was recently diagnosed with a serious & potentially progressive eye condition. Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

I didn't know what was going on with Sam. I didn't know why he walked away from me whenever I tried to talk to him. Whenever I tried to even just be in the same room with him. As soon as he saw me, even if I wasn't even trying to talk to him, whenever he saw me, as soon as he saw me, he went the other way.

They said, Dean and Mary and Cas, they all said I should just wait and let Sam come to me when he was ready, and I tried, I did, but – Sam's the person I've been closest to right from the beginning. Right from that first day he was right there with me. I didn't want to wait. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted him to talk to me.

But then, I don't know, he couldn't walk away I guess. In the bedroom hallway. I tried to talk to him. I wanted to talk to him but he was shouting. Not at me. It didn't seem to be at me. Then he just sat down on the floor. Like he just gave up. Dean came and got him to stand up and told me I should go wait somewhere else because Sam needed to get some rest.

I didn't want to. I didn't want to go wait somewhere else. I wanted to stay with Sam. Stay near him. I wanted to know what was going on. I wanted to know that he was okay and what was going on.

It was my father. I figured out that much from hearing what was said when I wasn't in a room. Sam was upset because of my father. But he was dead now so why was Sam upset _now_ when he hadn't been upset all the while my father was alive? I needed to know. I wanted to know.

Dean told me again to wait somewhere else and he'd come talk to me. He didn't say when he'd come talk to me. I thought maybe when Sam was resting. Maybe.

I didn't want to hear or overhear what Cas and Mary might be saying about what was happening with Sam, so I went to the little room Dean had set up for them, for him and Sam, to watch TV.

There was no TV in there now. It was cursed. I guess. Dean explained it to me but I didn't quite follow what he was telling me. I just nodded like I understood and thought I'd ask Sam. Whenever he was ready to talk to me.

We'd been home almost two full days. I thought he'd be ready by now. But, no. Dean must be right. Sam must need to rest. It couldn't be just that he didn't want to talk to me. That he would never want to talk to me. Because of my father.

I sat in one of the chairs. The one farthest from the door. Sam told me once, or maybe more than once, that Dean always takes the bed closest to the door. So I thought he would probably take the chair closest to the door, too. So I sat in the chair I thought must be Sam's chair. It seemed the only way to be close to him right now. I sat in the chair and I waited for Dean.

But I would've rather been waiting for Sam.

It wasn't that I thought Dean couldn't or wouldn't explain things to me. I just – Sam was just – I just really wanted Sam to talk to me. I wanted him to want to talk to me.

Dean did finally come in. I suppose it wasn't too long after. It felt long but I don't think it was. I think it just felt that way. He stood in the doorway and asked, "Are you okay?" He didn't come into the room and I thought maybe, when he said he'd talk to me, maybe that was all he meant. Maybe when he knew whether or not I was okay, he'd go back to Sam.

"Is Sam okay?"

"He's –" It took Dean several seconds to answer. "No, he's not. He will be. But right now, no."

"Is it – I know it's my father, but is it something – did _I_ do something wrong? Is that why Sam doesn't even want to see me?"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong. Sam – this has been part of our lives, a big part of _his_ life, for his whole life. To have it finally be over –"

Right in the middle of talking to me, Dean stopped talking to me. He was looking at me then he was looking at the floor then he wiped his hand over his face.

"It's 'over' because my father's dead," I said.

"Yeah. And that's part of it, too, probably. The effect it's having on you. Look –" Dean came into the room. He sat in his chair, on the edge, not back like he was planning on staying. He turned his chair so that it faced me and sat at the edge of it. "There's a lot of working parts to this, most of them you don't know about."

"I know Sam was in hell with my father. I know that was – bad."

"Yeah, it was bad. It was _so_ bad that Sam will never tell me how bad it was. Sam's not mad at you, Jack. All right? You didn't do anything. He's not talking to Mom or to Cas, either. He's barely talking to me. He's just – you know, he's exhausted. And sometimes you can get so exhausted you can't sleep. He just needs to sleep."

"Will he talk to me then? After he sleeps?"

I wanted Dean to say 'yes'. I wanted him to say that as soon as Sam got some sleep, got some rest, that yes, Sam would talk to me. Of course he would.

But Dean sighed as though he didn't like the question. Or maybe because he knew I wasn't going to like the answer.

"He's just got to process what happened. You know? Not just what happened with…your father…dying, but everything. His whole life. He'll talk to you when he's ready. Okay? I promise. I'm gonna go check on Sam." He stood up and pushed his chair back in place. "He'll talk to you when he's ready."

I wondered how long it would be for Sam to be ready.

TBC


End file.
